Why I live in cohousing

Photo is from an unknown year, but taken around the time of that car-borrowing story. That's our community chicken coop, which we had just hefted off a truck, and yes, I told the CSU students about the chickens, too, even though we no longer have a coop here at RR. Kevin is on the far right, and I’m in the center. My kids are right in front of me.

I’ve lived in cohousing for more than 25 years, so long now that I sometimes forget that it’s a configuration that people have opinions and thoughts about – usually these are starry-eyed idealizations, and I often want to caution people to curb their enthusiasm. I guess I poke holes in cohousing’s gems because I’ve had my heart broken many times here – and, to be fair, I’ve broken others’ hearts, usually with my narrow spotlighting of myself.

I had the chance to give a tour to idealistic CSU students in conservation and leadership last week. Their youth and aspirations (dang, even their questions were brilliant!) shoved me into a time machine, and I travelled back to 1999 and even earlier when River Rock was being designed. Those were the days, eh?

I told them about one resident (who lived here for less than 2 years!) blocking construction of a greenhouse here despite it being on the architectural plans when she chose which house she wanted to buy. It was ostensibly a story about how much we love the idea of consensus yet we can’t seem to tolerate the practice of it, but it turned out to be a story about how I can hold a grudge for >20 years.

But then a story emerged from the dark recesses of my memory that reminded me of why I live here, even when I seem to want to warn people off, and I shared it with the students when they asked what I love about living here.

Maybe it was 10 years ago, more more, but my kids were adolescents and they went off together on their bikes for some event while I met with a client. Suddenly, my oldest kid was standing outside the frame of the video call, behind my computer waving frantically. Apparently, Audrey was having an asthma attack and Dusk had cranked it back home to alert me and get her rescue inhaler. I bailed on the video call, and in an eerie state of calm, grabbed Audrey’s inhaler and walked out my front door. I walked straight over to my neighbor Kevin, who was sitting on the lawn, watching his kids. “I need your car,” I said (Dave had our only car at his work). Kevin reached into his pocket and handed over his keys. He didn’t ask why I needed his car. He didn’t ask how long I would be gone. There was a nonchalantness and a deep trust in that exchange. I scurried off with Dusk in tow, got Audrey’s inhaler to her (which quickly restored her to good health), and only told Kevin the story when I returned his keys.

What I love about that story isn’t just the synchronicity of how things unfolded, so seamlessly and easily, the fabric of connection strongly in place, but also because in my bones, I knew that I could walk out my door and find someone who would help me quickly and without questions – any of my neighbors would have handed over their keys in an instant – perhaps requesting more explanation and details than Kevin needed, but with readiness nonetheless. And that’s why I live here.